


History Society

by RionaHGoch



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, British Politics, F/F, F/M, How to Get Away with Murder University, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Older Man/Younger Man, POV Harry Potter, Politics, Possessive Behavior, Scotland, Teacher-Student Relationship, The Secret History feelings, Unhealthy Relationships, Whisky in teacups, You are just as sane as I am, posh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-02 02:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14535039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RionaHGoch/pseuds/RionaHGoch
Summary: "I have loved Tom Riddle and he, I believe, has loved me as well, on his own way. I have made many assumptions about this man, and even when I could be classified as someone who knew him, I continued to assume and called it a fact. Now I know that the only thing one can say about Tom Riddle is that nobody knows that man – and neither does he."





	1. And in closed-eyes, he walks into the pit

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, darlings. So, if you have ever read The Secret History by Donna Tartt, you are going to think I just copied the book, and did an awful job of it. Well, I am never gonna be Donna, but in my defense I promise you that this story is very different from that one - and probably worse because OMG that woman can write - but I used the first chapters as reference for mine. This history has nothing to do with Harry Potter either, but it uses its characters and their personalities and a improved speech pattern because I like my stories posh. I don't have a beta and my mother language is very different so maybe the sentences will sound weird to you. Well, whatever. Hope you like it enough to keep reading, I promise long chapters. And some art.

Recently I have come across a word _monachopsis_ that means relates to the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place. It’s a neologism, so out of place in a dictionary as the feeling it describes, yet it’s the perfect definition for the first eighteen years of my life, despite the fact it did not exist during those years.

My parents died when I was barely over one year in a house robbery gone wrong. Ironically, my father, James, was an agent in the MI6 – a fact that to seven years old, had made me think my father to be James Bond, they even shared the same name. My mother, meanwhile, was named Lily and was as beautiful as the flower, if photographs are to be believed. She was a doctor, a goddamn good one. Those tales were told me post-mortem, as I have no remembrance of them. Till this day, I am unable to inform anyone if my parents were right or left-handed, if they drank tea plain or with milk, if they were aggressive or passive drivers, if they were heavy or light sleepers. When I was maid acquainted with the word injustice, that was how I defined it: it was an injustice that my parents appear to be the most exquisite kind of couple, and that I never had the chance to know them.

After their premature deaths, no one could claim blood ties to me, therefore I was made part of the foster care system. I would need more than the fingers provided by my hands to count the amount of families that have housed my young self. During the following seventeen years, I have had zero to five siblings, I have lived in lavish houses and humble apartments, I frequented public and private schools, and had been addressed in villages, small cities, and big cities. I never had a place to call my own, a guardian to name as mine, or friends to console. For those years my soul couldn’t belong anywhere but under my skin, and my home could be fitted into two bags of clothes and books.

Perhaps because I did not hold of the ground to bury my roots in, I buried those into the world and in the pages of the books about its history. If only I had known what such passion would lead to, maybe I would have dedicated my time to literature.

At nineteen years old though, I was free. I had finally obtained my inheritance, a considerable sum that would certainly be useful after my graduation. Indeed, my graduation – as I have just been admitted into a scholarship to prestigious College of Humanities, Social Sciences and Arts of Hogwarts University. For the last two years, I had studied the same subject in Essex University, yet I had obtained glowing recommendations for the second. 

Located at the Scottish Highlands, the University of Hogwarts was a forty-minute drive from Edinburgh, Hogwarts was one of the oldest universities of the country, and famous for the Romanesque ruins three miles away the modern buildings, dated back 1680, in Palladian style.  As the train arrived at the village of Hogsmeade, the view of that pile of light stones and columns approached the rail, a dream of promises of belonging to wanderer’s eyes.

In fact, Hogwarts was just as beautiful inside as outside, large hallways and history seeping in every stone. The dorms were just as enchantingly surprising in its lack of disappointment. Located in the far-eastern complex, three rectangular buildings with a cloister at the middle of each, and spiral staircases at every vertices of its geometry. The room that was assigned to me was illuminated and spacious – two hundred sixty square metre –  with wall-length diamond widows at each side of the bed, painted glass forming the school insignia at the middle of both. The iron bed had beige and the other furniture was a dark wooden wardrobe. 

Those first days before September 1st were spent on my own company, in a euphoric state of liberty, perusing the books I had acquired with the allowance I had established for myself from my inheritance. My wardrobe was filled by things I purchased around: a bottle of Scottish Single Malt Whiskey, from a distillery thirty-seven miles away from Hogsmeade; a box of Cuban cigars and tea, too much tea. I wandered around the campus, drinking whisky from a teacup (as those were the only available utensils in the dorm kitchen always) or with a cigar in hands, leaving a behind a smoke trail that translated the daze that was my state of mind.

 

I had been planning to sign for Roman Empire course, as Julian-Claudian dynasty was a period that held my fascination to its extremes, however when the professor that had been serving as my counsellor, Professor Minerva McGonagall heard that she immediately advised me not to. A stern woman in her fifties, black hair tied imperiously in a bun behind her head, her sudden change of behaviour had been at least unsettling. When I asked why, the woman relented.

“You will be disappointed, I suppose, but there is only one professor assigned to the course, and I am afraid he is rather exclusive in his methods.” In my attempts that reassure her that no exclusive behaviour would make me relent the study of the Rome, she had revealed that the man, Riddle, only accepted students he approved of himself, and that I would never be chosen by him. Disheartened for the moment, or at least unwillingly to put a struggle in front I person I was aware would never yield in her conviction regarding her colleague, I allowed that subject to be silenced, for a moment of course.

Nevertheless, as I left the office of McGonagall, I remember asking her more on the same subject. “Does that sort of thing happens often here?”

“Pardon me, Mr Potter?” Her clipped tone indicated that despite knowing the subject I referred to, the woman had no eagerness to discuss it. I would not be deterred though, and had no qualms on explaining my reference.

“Of course, there are plenty of difficult teachers at every school. Have a biscuit, Mr Potter. You will find that with such a large collegiate as the one we have, the University of Hogwarts has plenty of eccentricities one must learn to adapt to. I trust your discretion on these.”

“Sure.”

“Professor Riddle is a special case anyway, he comes from a very wealthy family and refuses to receive his salary – donates it entirely to the university. For that some allowances had been afforded. Notwithstanding, even if you have a deep contemplation for the Imperial period, continuing to pursue the study of it would be a deprivation of the entire academic experience.”

Those harsh words would be forever engraved in my mind. At the time, I thought of them to show the deep envy the faculty in general held for Riddle, even though he was easily one of the most consecrated professors in his field. I was foolish making assumptions during that time, a toddler trying his firsts steps at the hall of a house he didn’t know.

And it was this foolish self of mine that with an apprehension moulded by McGonagall’s words, made the choice to watch the so-called students of Riddle. They were five, always together and they seemed too different, too fascinating for me. Their group was never present in any parties – and there were many – thrown around the campus, and their postures were impeccable. Three boys and three girls, whose personas nobody knew a fact about but despite of that, there was plenty of gossip available.

The smallest of the boys (even though he was taller than me) was lithe and silver-haired, pale skin contrasting against the dark tailored overcoats he wore, a strong jaw and his remaining features delicate. He was handsome, there was no doubt but in an ethereal, unattainably cold manner that could never charm one to his presence. His name was Draco Malfoy, and while the fact his family was French was not a secret only later I would discover that his mother came from a family of British astrologists, hence his first name.

 The second boy was evidently much closer to Malfoy than the others, and he attended to the title of Blaise Zabini. He was extremely gaudy in his choice of clothing, despite keeping a palette of mostly beiges and browns, he could be found wandering around the campus velvet vest over silk shirts, a mane of dark curls framing his face, dark complexion and a too-easy smirk, his approachable aura deceiving and his eyes with a shine of audacity that one could never tame.

The tallest of the boys was Ronald Weasley, gangly of frame and covered by freckles against a skin just as pale as his French colleague. His eyes were the bluest I have ever seen, and his lips sported a gentle smile, that translated his good-nature. He always wore grey tweed trousers, and usually tweed jackets although I have come to think of him as one in a jumper light-grey, his nose always smeared be it with ink, chocolate or coffee. He had a sister, Ginevra that also attended Riddle’s classes. I can count in one hand the occasions I have seen her wear skirts (and they were always rather provocative) otherwise she would be found in trousers, flared like bells and of tartan textile – her favourite were the Douglas and the Ramsay tartans, though she wore clan Macqueen very well – and oversized jackets she stole from the boys. She sadly didn’t share his eyes, but her hair was a lush of vivid fire and her face was savvy as her tongue.

And the last of them would always be Hermione Granger. Beige skin faded by a lack of sun-exposure, mid-length pleated skirts and jumpers that were always covered by a maze of bushy dark hair, dark blue and purple tones. Clicking Mary-Janes. Almond hazel eyes with too large lower and upper lids, thin nose and shaped lips. Her company was always an array of books and she, I heard, was a genius. Her parents taught at Barts and The London School of Medicine and Dentistry.

I was deeply interested by them at the time, even though the word obsessed could never be used. Every time their group was mentioned, I felt myself trying to hear a bit of what was being said, and when they weren’t, I proceeded with my own life. I made myself acquaintance with those that lived in the dorms and shared classes with me, and it was if those that I would come to known the parties in the campus, and tell me which was the best person that could sell booze, spliff, snow and well, everything. They called me friend, but we were not truly, and one Thursday, after leaving the room of a passed out girl with a goodbye kiss and her calling me Willy, I took a train down to Edinburgh where I purchased overcoats, and blazers and partially cashmere jumpers, in my attempts to emulate a group of people I have never known.

It was the middle of September and I was just as lonely as I have been my whole, my studies were my cause of breath and the time I got between them was sedated by alcohol and smoke. That day, when I returned to campus, I found myself sitting through the piles of books, in the giant library of the university. It was almost empty, for most students at that time should be just getting ready to get high, again.

“No, he couldn’t have been granted the right to become a _consul_ at seventeen. It is very clear, Sulla’s reforms were very clear: the minimum age for patricians was thirty.” The words were enunciated clear, not a care for those who might hear – to be fair, it didn’t seem to exist anyone else there. Indeed, there they were, unapproachable sitting around a coffee table, papers and books thrown around their bodies relaxed in armchairs: Blaise and the siblings. The one that had spoken had been him, Blaise.

“Yes, and that happened fifty-seven years before him. At the Republic _._ I know what I am saying about my country, Blaise. The rule changed.”

Ginevra’s words had easily made the connection for my Julio-Claudian obsessed brain. I could spot Sulla’s time around 80 BC, which would mean he was referring to something around 23 BC. And a discussion with that heading could only be referring to one particular Roman. “The rule did not change because you wish for it to have. This is history, and you are not an augur.” It was a particular clever retort of Ron, in my particular opinion. One very spirited.

Immediately I closed the book I was reading, about the Byzantine Empire, and walked to them. “Excuse me?”

They immediately stopped talking, three heads turning into my direction.

“I believe Velleius Paterculus states in Roman History that Tiberius entered politics under the directions of Augustus, and was made a _quaestor_.”

“Being granted the to stand for election as praetor and consul five years in advance of the age required by law. I told you I would remember it!” Was the self-righteous shout of Ginny, who escaped her armchair in order to peruse the bookshelves.

“I believe the same provisions were made for Drusus.” I completed, a tiny feeling of satisfaction taking over me, for knowing a fact those three special students were unable to remember. That feeling couldn’t last very long however, as I stood around like a sore thumb, unable to leave in my wish to have my wonderings confirmed. When she returned with The Lives of Twelve Caesars and Roman History in hands, I felt relieved by her reappearance.

“It was here the whole time, exactly as I said!” She was euphoric with her winning, and when she turned around to me, threads of hair were glued to her lips, amber eyes filled with enjoyment. “I want to shake your hand, stranger. For allowing me to show up these two.” And she came to hold both my hands, a grin on her face. “Very nice to meet you, yes, yes.”

I was a bit overwhelmed by the sudden attention of them. For two weeks, they had been an object of curiosity of mine, much like a painting you walk across every day, briefly fascinated. At this moment, the vivid duality of colours of my painting had jumped out of its frame, and shook my hand, like a neighbour in the lift after returning from a long trip.

“Blaise Zabini.” Was the second introduction.

“Harry Potter.”

“I believe I have already heard the name Potter. Your family is from Devon?” That was Ronald.

“I do not think so.”

“Maybe it was Porter then…You know your Rome.”

“Some parts of it better than others. I read a lot about the beginning of the empire.”

“But you are not studying it.” That was Ginny. “We would know.”

“Someone told me that Professor Riddle is rather selective.” At that moment, Draco Malfoy approached the strange group that had been formed at the library, his eyebrows arched to my persona.

“Draco, this Harry Potter. He studies Imperial Rome.” The introduction was made by Zabini, giving the leeway to the blonde analyse my persona and keep its entire face devoid of any impression I may have caused.

“Not here, surely.”

“No.”

“It was he that reminded us of Augustus nomination of Tiberius as _quaestor._ ”

“Useful. Are you Tiberius scholar?”

“I prefer Claudius.” I remember answering, because in my opinion Pliny the Elder was never more right in calling Tiberius the gloomiest of men.  

“I prefer Nero.” Draco had retorted, and if I did know him a bit better, I would have answered ‘you would’.

“And I prefer Caligula.” Blaise continued, without missing a beat. “What does that say about us?”

“That we should leave, before one of you turns this library in a brothel and the other burns it down.” That was the beginning of my admiration for Ginny’s tongue, no doubt.

 

I don’t know which part of that meeting had made the thought of becoming Riddle’s student seem possible – perhaps it had only been the touch of my favourite period in Ancient History (even though it had been a Tiberian touch, which in someone else would lead to death by boredom) or perhaps in had been Ginny, rouge of hair and of temper. Yet that idea had been seeded and watered in my mind, and therefore, it bloomed.

Professor Riddle’s office was adjacent to his classroom, and nobody ever entered there. It was at the top of the eastern wing of the History department main building, which I had heard had been entirely reformulated by Riddle’s donations. The first time I was accepted into this rooms, I was terribly impressed with the marble columns against the wall, the pale blue-greyish walls, the busts and paintings of historical figures – all of them, I would later discover, were truly from the same period the person they portrayed – and the large windows, that allowed all light in and a very dramatic visage of the ruined castle of Hogwarts below a tempestuous sky, feverish autumn colours.

As a History academic, Tom Riddle certainly lacked the looks for it. At the time of our first meeting, he had lived forty-three years and many months. It was easy to guess who all of his students attempted to emulate, for he was impeccable in style. A rather partial to Italy  when choosing a suit – something he would teach me about himself, and would recommend a British tailor for myself. The man was a true Adonis, had Adonis lived to age past the wild boar. A chiselled slim face, hooded dark eyes, imperious eyebrows, thin lips, straight, refined nose, he was tall and shaped, some spots of silver among the black, all of it gelled in a conservative properness.

If there is something that crossing paths with Riddle had taught me, were the name of luxury items brands, and the several connotations of it. I have yet to meet someone more obnoxious in his choices when purchasing items for oneself. He used Dunhill fountain pens, for its functional but minimalist design, he drove a Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith for its historicity, he tied Windsor knots in all his ties for the tradition it referred to, Pour Monsieur as a statement of his persona. In a bar, his order would be Scotch and in a social event, Cabernet Sauvignon. It was him that established the scent of Blenheim Bouquet that still can be found around my body, and the small fortune I am bound to spend once I walk inside a restaurant. By this man, I was made a creature of habit (habits I happen to despise) yet his presence by my life continues to be unfaltering as ever.

“And how may I help you?” He drawled, a deep baritone voice. His eyes hovered over my entire form, even though I couldn’t actually see them moving.

“I wish to be your student.” My courage – oh there it was – my fool-hearted courage, that made me sputter wordings that in the next moment would already be turned in regret.

“I see. Well, Mr –”

“Harry. I mean, Potter...Harry Potter.”

“Very well, _Harry._ Naturally, you must have been informed that my classes are all complete. That being said, maybe we could cast aside one these gentlemen –” his hands gestured to the busts that watched us, faces solemn at the prospect of being _tossed away_. “ – they have, after all, no brains but solid marble. Of course, they are all gentlemen, and in order to not strike their ego, we must dismiss one of them by title. Do you have a suggestion?”

I remember gazing to those stone faces in overwhelm. None of these had the amount of detrition needed to classify them as belonging to Antiquity, I surely wasn’t able to recognise figures with such dexterity. Yet, the long and plain face of Tocqueville came into my sight, by the grace of my own vision, and I almost breathed in relief. “Maybe France? Or should I address Alexis as America?”

“A good recommendation in fact. I believe I have heard about you. Son of James and Lily Potter, wasn’t it? I believe I have met one relative of your when I was a young man. Fleamont Potter, a big name in the pharmaceutical industry in the sixties and seventies.”

I had known, of course, that Fleamont was the name of grandfather and that he had quite a lot of money, yet until that day I would have been unable to name his profession.  I briefly confirmed my blood relations, substantially unsettled by his interest on my past relations.

“Of course, your own achievements are admirable, indeed. However, before we may proceed there are a few conditions with which you must agree.”

“What?”

“You must go to the Registrar’s office tomorrow and request a change of counsellors. It’s my policy to never accept a student unless I am his counsellor as well. You may have already observed that the faculty and I walk not in the same line of thought.” He reached for a pen in one of the drawers of his desk, he wrote a note and delivered it to me. “The Registrars never assigns students to me if they are not requested.”

His handwriting was pedantically sized; in the way one could almost believe him to be an Euclidean theoretician. The lining was surprisingly strong, despite the delicate character of the curvature.

“For the same reason, you should gather some drop-add formularies as well. Other professors are prone to be rather opiated about me in any other class you may attend, which would render those useless.”

And _that_ speech almost rendered me speechless. “I cannot drop all my classes.”

“Why not? All the classes I wish for you to be part of will be taught by myself. The administration is not new to this process, I assure you they are unable to make a criticism. We will cover all periods, from antiquity to contemporaneity. If I find you deficient in one I may meet with you outside classes.”

“All my classes with one professor?”

“I believe having several teachers is harmful and confusing to young minds. In the same way I believe one ought to aim for knowing one book intimately than fifty superficially. The moderns may disagree with me, yet Plato had, after all, just one teacher.”

Undoubtedly, it was strange the way in which I was lured to such an unbelievable scenario with an infinitesimal amount of doubt about his methods. A meeting of eyes and one arched eyebrow of his was enough for me to be convinced, and in a similar prompt fashion to the one he had showed in taking me as a student, I accepted his terms. 

 

Settling things with the Registrar’s office had been surprisingly simpler than one would have thought; despite the apprehension my former counsellor had showed when I told her of my transference under Riddle’s wing. McGonagall had been barely able to contain her frown when she heard about it.

“You have come to your inheritance recently, haven’t you?” She had asked. I had agreed, a bit overwhelmed by the fact that in a university with over ten thousand students, everyone seemed to know where I came from. She had proceeded to warn me on keeping my pockets close, otherwise I would have no inheritance by the end of my studies.

The following Monday, I was officially heading for my first class, grey puppytooth trousers and black derbys I had purchased solely for a good impression, and in an attempt to be fitted in their group, and thus fade one particular way among those selected ones. The moment I arrived at the classroom, I saw Ginny, a grin on her face, mischief on her bones.

“So, you are the new addition. I knew you would come the right moment I saw you.” Her grin was contagious, paper white skin dotted by freckles. “Come for me?”

 I remember the warmth of the flush that permanently resided by my cheeks during those days. I remember self-conscious manner I would swift on my feet, and a ducking of head. The girl that I now remember fondly of, in our first interactions would overwhelm me with her physicality. It’s strange to think, how much can one be changed by such a small group of people.

My first meeting with them had been incredible awkward. I was an intruder, despite the attempts of the Weasleys to cover the apphrension all of them felt for me. For two years (in the case of Draco and Blaise that period could be extended to approach a lifetime) they had the opportunity to assemble their roles and acts in this miniverse  that one Tom Riddle had sculpted and for once, they found among themselves a hostile presence, who they did know nothing about.

My past was, in some sort of way, known for the world yet my persona had never left any traits behind, lingering ties or scars. I had been a wanderer for all my life, walking past sceneries unable to leave a footprint in the fen. This would be the only time I was able to stop in my path, and glance into the pond that reflected my image.

I did not like what I saw.

There is good in all of us, that’s true, and we choose to belief that the acts we made are the exercise of it – however they rarely are, for while the good exist in all of us, neutrality prevails, and in this, specks of darkness can be found. This darkness can be translated into anger, pride, pettiness, luxury; and each of these traits can be found in a wider or narrower range inside of every soul in Earth.

During that time frame, I learnt that every soul can be nudged to act on their natural sins. I would ask the reader for their understanding and empathy, but that’s not a right of mine. I doubt one will ever read this, anyway.

_And in closed-eyes, he walks into the pit._


	2. I wasn’t a foreigner in a no-man’s land.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back! Thank you so much for your support and warm words. This is a slow chapter, hints of the plot but not much else. This is not supposed to be. I have to first make Harry more of a part of the group, before make a Trojan War out of it.

“We are all aware that the Athenians had already fought the Corinthians at the sea in Sybota – they were now engaged in a siege of a city, together again against the Corinthians, yet no war was declared. It was a technical peace time, but also a period of many tensions. During the winter, the Athenians decreed of assembly, which forbade the Megarians from using any of the ports of the empire, the agora of Anthens and the harbour of Piraeaus.”

“Basically from trading in Athenian soil, professor?” That was Hermione, in her attempts to make a point.

“An excellent observation, Hermione, that opens to a great discussion. The point has been made that this was not an embargo, but an attempt to disgrace the Megarians. The forbidding of the Agora was done so in the considering it was a civic centre. Of couse, that point can be easily overridden. The Megarians were one of the few allies of the Corinthians in Sybota. Two years before Sybota, Corinth had faced Corcyra  in Leucimne, and in it, the Corinthians allies were a much larger number than in Sybota. The Spartans had made clear that their allies should stay away from the conflict. The Megarians notwithstanding were among the Corinthians in Sybota. They had a terrible grudge against the Athenians, even more for their rebellion against the Athenians at the end of the first Peloponnesian war. It was important for the Athenians to deter other Peloponnesian allies from doing a similar rebellion, next time. The supreme art of war is, after all, to subdue the enemy without fighting. Can you see modern examples of this?”

“The Paraguayan War, there is some belief  that the United Kingdom financed the allies against Paraguay, and that British imperialism was the catalyst for the war.” Draco pointed out.

“Yes, but that isn’t that similar, is it. Firstly, Paraguay was greatly affected by the war, and second of all, there is no evidence of this theory being truthful.”  Hermione argued. “ Perhaps Cuba, when Eisenhower enacted a commercial and financial embargo when the properties were nationalized.”

“Well, Hermione that is not that similar either.” Ginny interrupted. “I mean, anyone can notice the connection with the communists, and the North-Americans aversions for those; yet the embargo greatly affected the Cubans, and well, who were they truly threatening?”

“What do you suggest then, Ms. Weasley?”

“I wouldn’t be able to remember of nothing now, professor.” She replied, cheekily. “Ask Malfoy again. His eyes seem to have been enlighten by some faded light.”

“Indeed. The Continental Blockade. Enacted by Napoleon in attempts to detain the United Kingdom economically. In practice it affected more the French allies than then British.”

“Not the same consequences of course, that would be very difficult to find in modernity, for trade and commerce in the most recent history has been the raison d’être of most countries. A very clever reminding to be made by a Frenchman living in Britain.”

“Those all lead to one point however.  Subtlety. It’s possible that only three percent of the wars fought by mankind were decided in the battlefield. Most of them never left the rooms of diplomats and rulers. Here we have just one case. The only option was truly the degree. They couldn’t attack directly an important ally of Sparta, for that would breach thirty-years of peace and begin again the war. Pericles didn’t wish for that, and so he devised this decree as a diplomatic mean to deter the behaviour the Megarians had showed. It’s very difficult to understand this decree in any other manner, for it does not have the usual purposes one embargo would have. It would not convince the Megarians to join the Athenians, for there was a terrific ill will between the two cities. It would not wipe them out, or either takes them out of business. It was not an attack against the Megarians per se, but a threat against the other Peloponnesian cities. Most states in it had some kind of commerce, would understand the significance of that. We must still discuss the voting of the Spartan Assembly before we begin to understand Pericles as a military general, darlings and demoiselles, but for today, we rest. ”

Riddle was a sorcerer in his lectures, gestures and syllables an spell that could be laid upon one’s head, devouring one’s mind in its state of hovering. With some effort, I could probably rewrite every lecture he had given, not for the ability of my own mind, but because of the impact the words made when shocking my eardrums. I doubt I will be able to remember every so well any of the others, but my experience with Riddle is deeply housed within my bones and flesh. That day, when talking about the event leading to the Second Peloponnesian War, I remember him asking for me to stay behind, barely one week after I started as his student.

“How are you settling among them, Harry?” He had said, shuffling notebooks and papers over his desk, a worried glance in my direction.

“Ginny and Ronald are very welcoming. The others, well, they try. I suppose it’s expected, for I am a stranger to them, I don’t think I can offer anything else to their company.”

“That’s ludicrous, never a student of mine shall be marked by plainness, you shall see. Indeed, Mr and Ms Weasley come from a sphere in which warmth was expected – I cannot say I do agree much with their parents, but that aspect I can’t deny – it’s no wonder they would be the volunteers. The others will follow.”

“You know their parents?” I remember that question was partly an attempt to ignore his compliments and partly a genuine curiosity about the Weasleys, whom at that time, I have already heard were an ancient and large family.

“Arthur and Molly Weasley. I ought not to say we have much in common. They built a quite large bloodline all by themselves. Another achievement of them would be suffocating such bloodline with ideals to the point they all fled from home.” He used this words with an unignorable note of derision. Later, Ronald would confide in me that he had five older brothers. All of them quite successful in their chosen field of expertize – and indeed, very far away from their ancestral home, known as the Burrow.

However, that time I had no idea how to react to the information that the Professor had presented to me. I simply shuffled through my notes, seeking for a response to offer among those scribbles I dared to name annotations. “I cannot accuse you of being absent today, Harry. Yet I must admit my disappointment to your silence. You must know that any interruptions are welcome in this room.”

“I don’t know more than the acceptable about the Classical Greece.”

“That’s a shame. If you wish, I can provide you some reading recommendations, and please, my office is open to any of my students, I must insist you visit me in order for us to talk. It’s a fascinating period, don’t you think?”

“For some reason, I thought you would prefer the Hellenistic.” It was not a well-thought comment, that of mine. Harsh, like most I tend to make – to be sincere, I would always enjoy pushing a bit, to see how he would react (it was a novelty, a professor that didn’t immediately shot down his students’ ideas). I added a _sir_ to it, as an after-thought, an apologise for the connotation of my words. I couldn’t recognise why I thought that of him; yet my impressions of him have always been instinctive. Even though my subconscious always told me to beware, I for long choose to ignore them.

The truth is that if I meet Tom again, I would probably forget all my senses once again. He had that effect.

His laugh at my bluntness would always satisfy me. “You are a breath of fresh air, Harry. So shy one moment, so blunt another. Your assumption is not all that equivocate yet for the degradation to be wholesome; the innocent purity shall shine before. What is the Hellenistic, if not the desecration of the Classical?”

“Unity. Development in society.”

“Colonization. Arrogance blinding one from seeing the path, and thus falling.”

“All of them will fall, no matter how great or supreme. The Greeks fell, so did the Romans, France and even England. Did the Greeks truly fell, sir?”

 Professor Riddle smiled at me then. Savvy and pleased – and at that moment, I same to say, he had me. For I am sure I would do anything for that smile to bloom, and until this day my lips turn into a shade of a smile when I think of his.  “That’s a question. How can we truly consider the end of the Greek civilization to be together with the end of the Macedonian rule, when their culture stood and took their enemies as protégées? Had they not existed, our notion of civilization would not be. When one looks at Greece, on think it has fallen but the culture of their ancestors still enchants us. I knew there was a spirit in that lovely head of yours, Mr Potter.”

“Hey, do not patronise me!”

“I am not your teacher, Harry? Am I not allowed to patronise you? Is it not a teacher’s duty to act as a patron to one’s students?” His mild mockery seemed to infinitely amuse him, yet I didn’t know how to reply to it anymore. His eyes turned back the documents he had over his desk, an obvious dismissal.

I finished stocking my books into my satchel and took my sport jacket off my chair. Riddle had approached me in the meantime, his hand held a paper note, in which he had written a list with six books. “Those all contain excellent chapters on the Classic. Skim through them, and then I think we should have tea one day.”

I had agreed with him, and then said my goodbyes. When I tucked the note into my pocket, I found another one, waiting to be found, inside of my jacket. In it, it said:

_Harry mio caro,_

_Now that we are fated to convivere, I must be the first to get to know you. Let’s have lunch this Saturday, I know an excellent place, my treat. Meet me at the Everard Hall, say at 1 p.m.?_

_A presto,_

_Blaise Zabini._

It was a strange note, for I had not exchanged more than five sentences with the Italian during the week, but my curiosity was peaked. And that was good enough reason for me to make my mind to abiding his invitation.

 

The following day, I meet with Blaise at the Hall after a morning of reading the books Professor Riddle had recommended. In his hands, an exemplar of his choice of cigarette, MS. Cream velvet blazer and brownish leather gloves. “There is saying in Italy, that MS stands for _morte sicura_ – certain death. Want one?” Was his greeting.

“I don’t smoke –.”

“Really? Bene, I suppose that’s quite intelligent of you.”

“– cigarettes.”

“Quite dim-witted, then. We should get going.” He said, swinging his car-keys. Blaise drove a Maserati, a 1980 Khamsin, I would learn latter when I was introduced to the concept of luxury cars. My first impression of it lacked the admiration such car was supposed to induce, but there was no doubt it suited its owner very much; angular shapes that were sharp as the boy’s cheekbones. The most unusual aspect of it was surely the fact it was a right-hand car. I had never left Britain before, therefore such feature was a novelty. The fact it was travelling in a left-hand lane made it even more surreal.

“Così, how do you find the professor? Or better yet, how did the professor found you?” Was his first question to me, his eyes never leaving the road unless to draw a cloud of smoke in the air.

I explained to him that it had been I who had pursued Professor Riddle yet he seemed quite acquainted with my character before our meeting. Blaise informed me that it was not such a surprise, for the professor was very gifted in his predictions, and that he was never able to forget an information once acquired, unless he choose to do so. During that time, he used more Italian adverbs and it felt in a way, as a bait. I could see myself, a haddock being guided into a question I had no idea why he would wish for me to ask, yet my curiosity won over my fear of appearing gullible. 

“Have you moved to Britain to attend Hogwarts?”

“No.” A puff of smoke, a turn of the steering wheel. “I was dispatched to the British soil at six, to live with my prozia. She was dead by my tens.”

“And therefore, you have used Italian in every opportunity, for fourteen years.”

“Infatti. You, of course, know the meaning of archetype. Yet I doubt you known the definition of the concept.  To Platonism, it does refer the pure forms that embody fundamental characteristics of something. The Analytical psychology points to it as a collectively-inherited unconscious idea, pattern of thought, image, etc., that is universally present, in individual psyches. Have you never wondered how would it be, to embody one archetype in your soul, and to nurture it until it becomes a definition of you – a mirror that covers an unseen wall. Even I do not know who I would be without this trial of mine. There is excitement in a play that real life cannot translate.”

“Is that an invitation to become a fellow actor? Among my own people, I would fade into nothing but the flag of my country. If I must become a stock character, I will be a tart with a heart, for they undoubtedly the most interesting ones.”

Zabini laughed, parking the car in an alley of Hogsmeade. “ _Sei più simile a una sciarada, mio caro.”_ He muttered, words I could not understand but whose sound was so familiar. Hogsmeade was a medium-sized civil parish, no more than twenty-two thousand habitants, but we were definitely in a region of it I had never been before.

It had a Gaelic name which would usually connote to typical pub or tavern – which I would always favour – yet the interior, for my disappointment, was very much a place someone like Blaise would frequent: sumptuous damasked maroon wallpaper and malachite furniture, taupe velveteen chairs. We were received by a young man that perhaps I had already seen around in the university – he definitely knew Blaise, for the manner his posture stiffened and he quickly guided us to our table. There were five more customers inside: a couple; a father and a son, accompanied by a woman more close in age to the second, even though she was visibly involved with the first.  We, I’m sure, appeared to quite fit with pattern project by that place, ordering the most selective pieces of the menu, in a rotten way that one dismisses money. I didn’t not protest against such behaviour, even with it being so foreigner to me, for my curiosity was piqued.

Blaise was an unending solo-performance. The conversation flowed between us with surprinsgly ease – he had a very philosophical mind, shifting from idea to idea like a bird from perch to perch.  I myself was not so prone to such impractical thoughts, yet our mutual appraisal for History gave us enough subjects for this difference to not be glaring obvious.

The truth about Blaise is that his was very open about the facts that made his life, which inspired others to be so in a similar fashion – yet the disconnected array of disclosures he offered made possible for one to known the persona he presented, and impossible to do so with his true characters. To this day, what that boy thought about me has remained unknown and the cracks I was presented to reveal he was more afraid and small than he perceived himself to be allowed to be.

We made a game of pushing the other’s behaviours and it was exciting to make my thoughts physical. We were well within our cups, at four p.m., the sun already bending in the sky. Ten questions were in it allowed, and we were Pyrrhus and Decius in the Battle of Asculum, fierce and foxy.

“Why did you order this wine, if all you do is to drink mine?” Was my first, jokingly starting.

“This, _mio caro_ , is a legit corvina, fruity and spicy – my mother would undoubtedly approve. Unfortunately, it doesn’t go as well with my veal as does your bordeaux. Cabernet Franc, can you feel?”

“It does taste good. So, MS, certain death. You definitely do not fear to play with your life-line.”

“The _moire_ will take me whenever they wish, the way they take most enjoyment of. How would you like to die?”

“Doing something worthwhile, probably. Or surrounded by my family. You?”

“Poisoned. I would not want cyanide. If I must die, I am partial to aconite. Or hemlock, like Socrates. You don’t have a family, though. Do you plan to build one?”

“It is a wish of mine. You don’t? Does everyone know about my parents?”

“What would I do with a family, with children? Certain I like the interest and the want for ties it does seem to need. Professore Riddle knew of your parents, if that’s what you are asking yourself – and we promptly did as well in one day after our first meeting. You cannot be surprised – it was in all the journals of nineteen years ago. Why does it bother so much?”

“I don’t know how to answer that one. Why do you prefer Caligula?”

“I do? Oh si, I do. Caligula means ‘little soldier’s boot’ you must know. He couldn’t decide if he was Jupiter, or the Roman edition of Akhenaten, poor dear.  He was a very creative tyrant, don’t you think? For a while he fooled all that he could be decent, but there was never something so tame a decency in his decadence. Or maybe it was just the disease. Why Claudius?”

“He did well enough, in a time nobody else did. The fact he even became an emperor when he was ostracized and called weak it’s amusing – that he did better than the majority of his family is even more. What do you think Caligula had?”

“Epilepsy, I trust Suetonius. And maybe encephalitis.  What did you study before coming here, you must have graduated from the secondary two years ago?”

“Yes. I was studying history in Essex: _Thought the harder, heart the keener._ It was very different from here, definitely there weren’t any ruins from an ancient castle to explore. Where did you live, before coming here?”

“A secondary school in Wiltshire. The same one Draco attended. Were you ever adopted?”

 “That’s very personal, but no. Just the childcare system for me. I thought Malfoy came from France.”

“When he was a baby. His mother is British, and his father works as a diplomat – I believe. Il Professore knows them. Why did you leave Essex?”

“I am a student of history – I had the opportunity to study in a university with hundreds of years or in one with less than fifty; it was not a choice – it was a calling. Does Riddle knows everyone’s parents?”

“Of course he does. We are his students after all. What do you think of him?”

“Of Riddle? His name fits him entirely – he is nothing if not a charade. Why were you sent off to England?”

“Uh-uh. Your ten questions are over. Will you come with me?”

“Yes.” I agreed, still a bit upset by being outmanned by him. We took some time in our inebriated state to pay for the service – Blaise did, actually, for he insisted on treating me.

The waiter, whose name I still couldn’t remember, wore a barely concealed weariful expression – a pretty boy, golden curls and mulled eyes. I still feel some empathy for that man, for his familiarity with my companion was noticeable, for the spectator that I was to that scene, he appeared to be ill-regarded by Blaise. The brunet took the money he owned – several notes of fifty pounds – and threw it into the ground. He walked past the door in a without looking behind, and the blond bended over to pick them. I did the same, our eyes meeting in my attempt to apologise for my companion’s behaviour. The waiter flushed and harshly took the notes from my hand, leaving my person alone in the dining hall.

I don’t think I ever confronted Blaise about this episode, and that’s one thing I will regret. There was a hidden story in that interaction, yet I was in the beginning of building some kind of tie with my fellow students and that was enough – even if barely – to contain my curiosity. Perhaps later I should have, when my position within them was already materialized but years of following the tides forbid me of questioning a forgotten doubt.

We had spent the afternoon inside that restaurant, and the sun had set by the time we once again drove through the streets, the radio blowing a record of Verdi’s Aida. The Italian drove like a madman, accelerating the car up to 90 mph in the Hogsmeade’s streets. I swore in every corner he turned, certain we would meet a pedestrian sometime or at least the police. Neither happened however, and he parked in front of a 19th-century townhouse in the most expensive neighbourhood of Hogsmeade – three-storey, brick walls and hedge.

He and Draco lived together in a kind of commensalism – for the same reasons commensalism happens. Blaise lived in a so intense state of boredom that it would not be surprising if he forgot to drown some food in the sea of alcohol that could be found in his stomach. Draco was the most apathetic caretaker one could find, but nonetheless, he was efficient in his ways. None of them lived in the college dorms – Ron and Ginny in a terrace house for convenience and Hermione in a cottage for the quietude. The townhouse was an induced haze– the furniture very dark, the walls covered by paintings, wardrobes and bookcases to the ceiling in suffocating fashion, beautiful silken curtains always closed. Tobacco smoke parted the light; a record of something would only be silent if Draco were to play something in the piano – which could be found at the hall. I still wonder how those two managed to live in that house without becoming aestheticists.

When we entered, we found Draco lying on a fainting couch, a pile of books surrounding him and his eyes closed, listening to an impressionist piece with trumpets and flutes.

“Were you not going to have dinner with _il professore_?” Blaise soon asked a tinge of something I didn’t recognise at the time as envy in his tone.

“Professor Riddle had to reschedule. Something urgent came in London, according to father. He took a flight two hours ago, I believe.”

“What a pity. Play something for us, then.”

Draco turned his gaze at me, regarding the stranger in his house with pronounced indifference, his eyes were grey and quite unfeeling but the iciness of that man would always burn hotter than any trait of Blaise – for one was straight-forward in his path of thought while other was a waltz in circles and jumps and unmoving in place. “Any suggestions?” It was a question directed at me, if that was not obvious than the throwing of a book, one of Rowse’s works on the War of the Roses.

“You know anything of Handel?” I said, not because I was deeply familiarized with his works – my access to music was quite brief, through my life, but I had seen a vinyl of his works among my parents belongings. Before that day, I doubt I had ever heard anything of his, for the vinyl had not come with a gramophone.

He nodded as if he approved my choice of suggestion, and sat himself on the bench, his fingers dexterously drawling notes from ivory and mahogany. To my virgin ears – which had to this moment only know Nirvana, Radiohead, Queen, Prince, Madonna, Oasis and everything that belonged to the 90s – that was another galaxy. My wonder was probably noticeable, for I soon heard a whisper: “You have no idea what he is playing, do you?” I must have stiffened, for he gave a small laugh. “Suite in D minor…it’s from Handel if you are wondering. _Rilassarsi_ , I am not going to tell him. You choose well, even if you don’t know. He is probably the best of the Baroque.”

“I thought Vivaldi was a Baroque composer. He is Italian, no?” I whispered back, and Blaise laughed full-hearted this time.  

“You are right of course. Do you know how to dance?” I don’t think I would ever answer yes to that question. “Draco, would you give me a waltz, _per favore_?”

Draco continued his piece, an apathetic look to his housemate, and then he changed the tune to something slower, more fluid. Blaise smiled and took my hands. It was a soft waltz, Chopin’s, in A minor according to my dance-partner. “Follow my lead, allow your movements to flow. Don’t rush; allow it to penetrate your bones.”

We stumbled through the rooms, Blaise taking me in a tour with dance-steps, and slamming in the furniture, he giggled in the everytime we knocked something, and slowly his giggles took more time to bloom. The waltzes evolved and Blaise confessed the name of each to me, low words about the compositors and the pieces. He did not know how to play, no. But he had lived with pianists during his whole life.  We got sweaty, tired and drunk; and when we no longer could know where to try a new step, I already knew how to walk around the whole first floor.

Draco gave us an indulgent smile when we were finished, and such surprisingly warm expression did not appear as foreigner as one would think. He shoved down his throat the whiskey of the glass over the piano.

“Maybe we can make a Draco Malfoy out of you, _ancora_.” Blaise confided at my side, and left us for the liquor cabinet.

Draco Malfoy smiled to me, and for the first time _I wasn’t a foreigner in a no-man’s land_.


End file.
